


Intensity

by Camorra



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: M/M, Soulmate AU, Yandere Izaya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-08 18:29:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14699817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camorra/pseuds/Camorra
Summary: Of course he loves all humans. But this one is special because this one is his.





	Intensity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elias (nightmareStag)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightmareStag/gifts).



> for the prompt: color soulmate au, and let them be soulmates  
> then gave me control over the plot, foolish mortal.  
> hope you like it!
> 
> thanks steph, for beta-ing at one in the morning. i <3 u

There’s a million little papers that flutter desperately in the breeze at Hibiya intersection. One hundred thousand letters without answer. The travel guides say that it’s a ‘riot of color, a testament to the sheer determination of soulmates.’ The city of Tokyo calls it an ‘ecological nightmare,’ but Izaya thinks it’s _fascinating._ It’s a square where thousands of people pass each other everyday, and some. Some catch a glimpse out of the corner of their eyes and their world explodes into a riot of color.

Izaya picks the one clinging determinedly to his shoe, writing smudged with water damage and faded from too much time in the sun, but it's still perfectly legible.

It's like the millions of other pieces of paper, a name with a time and phone number. This one is months old, but the area code from the phone number isn't from Tokyo. It must be pretty far out, from the long string of numbers that scrawl across the page. Probably a tourist, last hopes pinned on a flimsy piece of paper.

Maybe he’ll call it later. See if she comes.

It’s always fun to see how they react when they find he’s not the one, can’t see a color past gray and black.

Some rail and scream and _throw._ Some curse. Some cry, trying vainly to hide their tears behind their hands.

He twirls on the pavement. Maybe she’ll doll up for the event, dolled up to make the best impression. Maybe the color will match her eyes and she’ll have scoured the mall for hours for the _perfect_ thing to wear.

It’ll be utterly lost on him, and she’ll be more jaded the next time someone calls. More tired. Less willing to make the best impression.

It could be _fun_ and he hasn’t anything to do this weekend.

But some. Some look at him with sadness in their eyes and pity in their smiles.

The note crumples in his hand and falls to the ground to join the rest of the trash that litters the streets.

 

Shinra is a pain, as _always._

_“_ That’s the _blue_ marker, Izaya,” Shinra says, like Izaya _cares._

_“_ So? It’s not like the teacher can _tell,”_ but he uses the ‘red’ marker to write their names on their petri dish anyway.

“You say that, but you do manage to consistently in the same colors,” Shinra says.

“It’s not like it’s hard, they do put the colors on the tags, you know.”

“Sure, but why _red_ of all things? You can’t even _see_ it.”

To match his eyes, of course.

“Why not red?”

“Because it looks _evil._ Celty says that before humans lost their colors, red was the color of war and bloodshed."

“Isn’t it still? Blood is still red, from what I hear.”

“It is,” Shinra confirms. “But do colors still evoke the same feelings from people who can’t see them? There’s nothing _physically_ different with their eyes that would suggest that they can’t. They don't _seem_ to. But there's nothing biologically different between colored and colorblind eyes."

“Maybe we should cut into yours,” Izaya suggests, stacking the petri dishes to carry them to the incubator. “See what makes yours so different.”

Shinra’s smile is lackadaisical and bright. “I’ve told you. Celty’s soul is so big, I didn’t have to see her to have color.”

That makes no sense. It’s more likely that one of the doctors or one of a million people baby Shinra saw was his soul mate and didn’t want to claim the psycho on the other end of their tether. There’s simply no record of those born with color these days.

Not rare. _None._

“It’ll make sense to you, once you meet them,” Shinra says. “Or maybe not. What Celty and I have is one of a kind!”

“That’s for certain. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that sort of one-sided devotion.”

“It’s _not_ one-sided,” Shinra protests. “I just need to be more worthy, is all. But I’m hers and she’s mine and that’s all there is to it.”

 

Kine meets him for a drop in the usual place, a small diner not far from the high school.

Izaya’s not sure that it’s necessarily a good thing that they have a ‘regular place,’ but whatever the client wants, he supposes. They’ve already paid for the information, if it leaks out the sides due to their carelessness, it’s not his problem.

Kine looks a bit haggard, shoulders drooping, and he’s playing with his silverware when Izaya slides into the booth. That’s not saying terribly much, but his mouth doesn’t make the quick up quirk it usually does when he sees Izaya.

It’s probably because he’s been… _released_ from the Awakusu and quite frankly, Izaya’s surprised to see him there at all. The news and Kine himself had rather led him to believe that death was the only escape from the clutches of the yakuza. How disappointing.

“Good morn~ing,” Izaya greets as if he can’t read an atmosphere. “Or good afternoon, at this point. I do have the information you—”

Kine holds up a hand, stopping him. “I, uh,” Kine picks up a hand to rub at the back of his neck. “I can’t take the information from you.”

Izaya twists his face into something like confusion, tilting his head to the side. “You did request it.”

“And you’ll still get paid,” Kine hastens to assure him. “I’m leaving the Awakusu, though.”

“Oh,” Izaya says, propping his chin on his hands. “Did something happen?”

“No, just. We have a difference in values,” Kine says.

Izaya supposes that’s _one_ way of putting it.

“They’ll most likely be transferring you one up the chain,” Kine says, twirling his spoon. “One of the executives will pick you up.”

“Wow, a promotion.”

Kine smiles, but it’s bitter and tired. “I guess. Be careful, none of them are exactly good people.”

In the organized crime syndicate? Shock and awe.

“You know,” Kine says, drumming his fingers on the table in front of him. “You don’t have to work with the criminals in the city. You could do the same thing for the police. Or just random citizens. Businesses will pay, for one.”

Amazing. Truly amazing. Kine even still seems to think he’s a good man, probably thinks this is the last chance to set Izaya on the path of righteousness.

Set him straight from the path Kine himself invited him on to.

Ah, the duality of man.

“I’ll consider it,” Izaya says, instead of _Kine, you absolute hypocrite,_ because Kine might prove to be useful at some point.

Kine’s shoulders slump, and he gives Izaya a wan smile. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

 

There’s nothing on the street corner. Izaya knows, he’s gone and looked. Nothing but a mailbox a bit past it’s prime and a brick wall with ivy slowly weaving between gaps in the cement. But he shows up anyway at the designated time and leans against the wall.

The car that pulls around the corner looks sleek in the way that new cars do, all rounded angles and aerodynamic proportions, and it idles in front of the corner long enough that Izaya understands that he's to get in.

The man inside doesn't even look at him as he slides in, fiddling instead with a cigarette and lighter. For all that he looks like he couldn't care less that Izaya’s in his car, let alone _exists_ , Izaya still feels the prickling awareness of someone watching.

How _exciting._

He can’t tell that his world has shifted on its axis at first. The seats of the car are still black. The man’s suit is still white.

But the tip of the cigarette glows a blinding, brilliant red. There’s a glitter of gold at the man’s throat.

The man’s eyes are a rich brown and they widen the tiniest amount when he looks at Izaya, sees that his eyes are the red his mother always found so unusual.

Izaya smiles, and his face feels like it could crack, like it should split into two.

“I'm Shiki Haruya,” the man says, and his voice is cool and calm and Izaya could almost believe it, if his eyes didn't stray to his glowing cigarette tip. “I’ll be your contact for the Awakusu. Now, do you have the last of the information that Kine requested?”

He’s so stiff, so _formal._

His human doesn’t immediately drop everything and scoop Izaya into his arms, but that makes sense because he is _Izaya’s_ human, after all.

Love is something you have to be _worthy_ of, after all.

“Of course I do,” Izaya says, reaching into his bag, handing over a file.

Shiki doesn't look at him as he takes the yellow folder, just flips through. “I have your phone number,” he says, and his tone and words are polite even if he refuses to look Izaya’s way. “Most jobs will likely be too delicate to discuss over the phone, we’ll arrange meetings to discuss what information I need.”

“I set the price before I collect information,” Izaya tells him, to see if he’ll look up. He doesn’t. He wants to pretend this hasn’t happened, is that it? Maybe he hopes to have Izaya _doubt_ what he’s seen.

Maybe, if Izaya were lesser.

“That’s fair. Do you know where the Awakusu offices are?”

“I wouldn’t be a terribly good information broker if I didn’t, ne?”

Shiki makes a non-committal noise. “I work from the art gallery near Sunshine Square.”

“Ah,” Izaya says, “the famous empty gallery. A truly stunning amount of effort put into your cover.”

There’s a muscle twitch in the corner of Shiki’s jaw, a blink-and-you-miss it twitch. Barely there.

“That’d be the one,” Shiki confirms, settling the papers he’s been looking through back into their folder. “We’ll let you back out on the corner we picked you up on, Orihara.”

“How courteous,” Izaya says. “Will you be this gentlemanly on our first date?”

“I think you’ve fundamentally misunderstood—”

“What, did you expect I’d just put out? Come now, I’m not _easy.”_ Shiki’s not getting flustered. He’s not getting angry, either.

He’s staring at Izaya with cool eyes. It’s such a shame. Brown is a warm color, after all.

_“_ I’m flattered,” odd, he doesn’t _sound_ flattered, “but I don’t make a habit of sleeping with business associates. Whatever you may have experienced with Kine is solely his own practices.”

Izaya cocks his head to the side. “It’s not very kind to pretend nothing happened, you know.”

“I’m not sure I’m following.”

“You’re saying you can’t see color?” Izaya hedges, trying to put a sound of disappointment into his voice. It’s _not_ what Shiki’s saying, but it’s an easy trap to set. A convenient out.

“Yes.”

“I see,” Izaya says, clicking the release to his belt. His shoulders are slumped, his face hidden and turned towards the door. He’s probably the picture of defeat.

If you can’t see the wicked smile carved on his face.

 

There’s so many _colors._

He’d _heard_ of it, of course.

The spectrum. Light is a wave/particle that bounces off things, absorbed by others. But there wasn’t any real way for him to conceive of it. Not really.

Walking through Tokyo is a challenge. There’s the normal pedestrians, five people trying to occupy the same square foot of space at a time. There are the usual smells.

But now.

Now the signs aren’t just _bright,_ they’re bright pink and red and blue and orange and the colors reflect in the puddles. And some colors flow smoothly into the next and some hit up against the next. And some are so bright they make his eyes sting and burn. Some are cool and easy to look at, deep and dark.

It’s _wonderful._

Some of the humans are wearing clothes that match. Others…aren’t. Riots of things that don’t blend. But that just makes them _interesting._ Maybe they meant to do that. Maybe they simply can’t tell.

He wants to twirl in the street, but there’s not enough _room._

His coat is black and his shirt is red and his nails are pink and his rings glint silver against the white of his fingers.

He has a human now. One of his very own. His other half. His to hold and have.

He just has to _get_ him first.

 

Shiki Haruya.

Twenty-four.

Birthday November 14, lives alone in a penthouse in the nice side of Shinjuku. No history of marriage, divorce, or significant others, but has been known to visit an Awakusu-kai affiliated brothel, on occasion.

Izaya’s not sure how he feels about that.

What a _go-getter._ The Awakusu-kai isn’t the largest gang in town. Isn’t the most powerful, but twenty-four is a young age to be the top of _anything,_ let alone the import/exports of a criminal organization.

Number one grocery buy seems to be an absolutely _unreal_ amount of coffee. In far second is protein bars, then cabbages, of all things.

No family. Not that Izaya can find, at least.

The phone that Kine usually called him on lights up, a buzz that clatters on the top of his desk.

It’s an unregistered Tokyo number, but he suspects he knows who it is already. What’s irritating is that this number didn’t come up in his search. How sloppy.

_Can you drop by the office at around five tomorrow to discuss a request?_

It’s unsigned, but he knows who it is. There’s only one other person who claims to have this number, after all.

It’s good, though. His human is one that can set aside personal discomfort in the name of doing business. Can divorce himself from his feelings and do what needs to be done. It’ll make him a harder catch, certainly, but more worth it in the end.

 

The Awakusu-kai art gallery doesn’t look much different _with_ color than _without._ It’s still done in a mono-chromatic gray scale, mostly empty walls hosting a single print.

But now he can see that the orchid in the corner is a delicate shade of purple, how nice.

There’s a man in a suit smoking in the corner that glares at him as he comes in, but it’s not anybody he recognizes.

He doesn’t bother to knock on the door marked “employees only,” just pushes his way in.

Honestly, there’s no security here at all. Anyone could come in and cause any amount of damage. How careless. How disappointing.

There’s what looks like a sham lobby, with a small bench pressed against the wall, and a few tired and angry looking men in suits hunched over equally tired and angry looking computers.

A few look up when Izaya enters, and one calls, “Boss, your guest.”

Shiki emerges from one of the doors off the main room to smack him across the back of his head. “Don’t yell. Stand up and get me, it’s unprofessional.” He turns to Izaya then, walking forward to shake his hand. “Thank you for coming on such short notice,” he says, like he summoned Izaya five minutes ago instead of yesterday.

“It’s my _pleasure,”_ Izaya says, stroking his thumb along Shiki’s hand.

Shiki makes no sign of having noticed. “Please, step into my office,” he says, gesturing to the door he emerged from.

It’s not much of an office, truth be told.

There’s an expensive looking laptop perched on a cheap desk and two couches facing each other over a coffee table. It looks like a room ready to be abandoned.

Maybe that’s the point.

“Please, sit,” Shiki says, gesturing at couch across from him. Izaya walks over and sits in his lap, only to be roughly thrown to the other side of the couch.

Shiki crosses his legs and clears his throat. “Profits from our gambling parlors have been going down steadily in the past few weeks, we suspect another parlor is operating in our territory.”

“Hm, do you now?” Izaya says flatly.

“Are you trying to suggest something, informant?”

“Of course I am. You think a gambling parlor is operating on your territory and you can’t give me a name?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, you just left out that key piece of information. Really, you think someone is scooping off the top of the profits and you want me to create a racket looking for the imaginary parlor while you do your own investigating.” Izaya sighs dramatically, “really, it’d be _so_ much easier if you just told me what my job _actually_ is.”

Shiki’s staring at him, but it’s not in disbelief. It’s a measured look, full of calculation. Izaya’s being assessed. “There’s no way to tell that from what I just told you.”

“Of course there is. If you know that the Awakusu-kai have a stranglehold on their territory, ne? It’s my job to know what happens in Tokyo, you know.”

“So I gather.”

“I can do it,” Izaya says idly. “For seven hundred.”

“Do what, exactly?”

“Find whoever’s been taking a cut in your profits, of course.”

“That’s not--”

“Oh, I can make noises about looking for an underground gambling parlor, if that’s what you want.” Izaya crawls back over the couch to where Shiki sits, watching him warily. “But that’d be a waste of your time and mine.”

“You have three days,” Shiki says, standing from the couch and walking over to his cheap desk, grabbing something off the top.

That’s not an awful lot of time. Oh! A test. That makes sense.

“For you,” Izaya purrs, “anything.”

“Do you treat all your clients like this?”

“Aww, are you jealous?” Izaya hopes so. “Only you, don’t fret.”

Shiki shoves something in his face. It’s a business card.

“What’s this?”

“A business card.”

Izaya shoots him an irritated look.

“Yes, I can see that. Who’s Kitani Yoshi?”

“My driver. The only other person in the car that day.”

Izaya takes the card between his fingers, a small smile curling his lips. “That’s what you’re going with, ne? Pity, I thought you could come up with something better than that.”

“I don’t need to come up with something. It’s the truth.”

“Ah, that’s right. You can’t see the colors.”

“Yes.”

“Shame.”

 

The stationery store is more fun than he could have ever possibly have imagined.

He realized that there was _possibly_ a reason for having fifteen of everything, but his world of grayscale didn’t allow for the full effect of the possibility of having an office entirely in an alarming shade of pink.

But the pink, while certainly hard to look at, isn’t the quite the eye-burning shade he’s looking for.

Finally, he finds printer paper in a shade of yellow that makes him want to squint just from standing too close. It’s perfect. The color tag of ‘bright yellow’ doesn’t even start to describe the intensity.

He picks up a ream of that, then a few different colored pens. And a few file folders. Easier to keep track of things when the color is different.

And a few stickers.

And a snazzy stapler.

Might as well make the trip worth it, ne?

 

The Awakusu-kai gallery is exactly as bland and boring the second time Izaya goes as it is the first. Security hasn’t gotten any tighter either, it’s like Shiki _wants_ to be stabbed during the work day.

Izaya will have to fix that, preferably sooner rather than later.

“Shiki,” Izaya says, walking into his office, with a file folder tucked under his arm. “I have your man.”

Shiki blinks at him from his computer. “You may feel free to announce your arrival before you come,” Shiki says drly, but stands to take the file folder from Izaya’s hands.

He flips it open--

\--and immediately snaps it shut, blinking rapidly.

“Can’t see color, hm?” Izaya says, stepping forward until he’s right in Shiki’s space. “I think you’re lying to me.”

“Perhaps,” Shiki says, not breaking eye contact.

“Now why would you lie to your soulmate?” Izaya says, “I’m the only one you can trust in this world.”

“What a terrifying thought. I don’t even know you.”

“You could. I’m free this Friday,” Izaya says, “I’ll let you choose the place.”

“Generous of you.”

Izaya settles a hand on Shiki’s cheek, but Shiki grabs his wrist. “You’re holding my hand, how sweet.”

Shiki closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

  


Shiki doesn’t tell him the place.

But there are three different reservations made in his name in three different restaurants at three different times. There’s even one made in his favorite fake name at a restaurant across town.

_Adorable_.

But he calls Shiki’s driver to find that Shiki hasn’t told him of any plans that night. Convenient for him, but what if Izaya meant Shiki harm? The driver has to go.

So, at six sharp, Izaya knocks on Shiki’s door.

At six fifteen, he picks the lock.

The whole apartment speaks of understated elegance, the sort of bareness that only money could buy, with comfortable looking couches and tasteful paintings here and there.

Izaya finds Shiki himself in the kitchen, stirring something in a pan in front of him with his right hand and clutching a glass of something pungent in his left. He’s got his sleeves rolled up, and the vibrancy of the tattoos on his forearms is something to behold.

“I see you found me.”

“You didn’t make it hard.”

Shiki laughs, a low sound. “I did. I don’t know whether to be impressed or terrified.”

Izaya takes a seat at the small table tucked into the corner, in front of one of the two plates set out.

“You could be both.” Izaya runs a finger around the edge of the plate in front of him. “But you don’t seem very surprised. Decided to finally acknowledge the truth?”

Shiki sighs and picks the pan up, using the spatula to coax a tumble of vegetables and noodles onto Izaya’s plate.

“What truth? That as soon as I clocked eyes on you, I could see colors?”

“Yes, the one where we’re soulmates, that would be the one.”

“You seem dead set on having a relationship. Seemed like more effort to resist than to yield, you seem like the kind to give chase.”

“Of course I would chase you, you’re my soulmate.”

“You understand that relationships are more about _choice,_ right?”

Izaya freezes in stabbing a zucchini with his fork. “There’s not someone _else_ , is there?”

He didn’t hear of anyone, didn’t see anyone. Oh, but how Tsukumoya _loves_ to mess with him. Maybe it’s that whore. Maybe he has a regular and he thinks it’s _love._ He knew he should have looked deeper into that, should have found her name, her face. Should have cleared her out of the way before--

“No,” Shiki says, calmly eating his own stir-fry. “It’s an expectation for you.”

“I’ve already chosen,” Izaya says. “I understand if you haven’t yet, but,” Izaya smiles at him, showing as many teeth as he can. “But do decide quickly. Shouldn’t be too hard, there is only one right answer.”

“I’m not so sure of that.”

“I’ll convince you.”

“And if you can’t?”

“I will.”

Shiki’s gaze is considering. “You’re serious about this.”

“Deadly.”

Shiki sighs. “Convince me, then.”

“Trust me, I’m _trying._ ”

“By breaking into my apartment?”

Izaya gives him a grin. “It’s working, ne?”

Shiki just _looks_ at him.

“Don’t be like that, I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt and assuming I’m a special case.”

“You are. Your kneecaps are still intact.”

“Casual threats of violence are _so_ sexy.”

Shiki chokes on his broccoli. “How old are you, again?”

“Ah, seventeen this May.”

“So, sixteen.”

“That is how that works, yes.”

“So, you’re still in high school.”

“Yes,” Izaya stares at his empty plate a little mournfully. “Are you going to ask me about my grades next? Is this some sort of interview?”

"Yes, it's called 'getting to know one another.'"

"Then how come you're the only one asking questions?"

Shiki stands and grabs the plates off the table, walking over to the sink and rolling up his sleeves. "I didn't think you would need to, given that you already know my address. Probably several of my credit card numbers."

Izaya stands to Shiki’s right and dries the dishes Shiki hands him.

“How long have you worked for the yakuza?”

“A while.”

“Vague.”

“So is the duration of my employment with them."

"Odd," Izaya says, poking around the cupboard trying to pretend he's figuring out where things go instead of scoping the place out. "I thought there was a ritual, or something."

Shiki hums in the back of his throat.

"Are you planning to go to college?"

"Maybe," Izaya shrugs a shoulder. "I'm already gainfully employed, ne? Not sure what the point would be."

“You should go."

"Seems rather like a waste of time and money."

"I'll pay," Shiki says, shutting the tap off and drying his hands. "If that's what you're really concerned about."

"I don't need you to."

"I should hope not, with what we pay you," Shiki says, dryly.

Izaya gives Shiki a sharp eye. "I'll consider it."

Shiki looks amused. It's a lessening of the tension around his eyes, more than anything else. "Like that, is it?"

"Like what?"

"The child is going to take care of the adult, is that it?"

Izaya reaches up to trace the scar cutting through one of Shiki's eyebrows. "Well, _someone_ has to."

"And what about you?"

"What _about_ me?"

"I see this will be a process."

 

It becomes a weekly thing.

Then a daily thing.

Then Izaya sleeps over.

On the _couch._

("It's not like you even _use_ your bed!"

"Not the _point_ , 'Zaya.")

Then Izaya graduates high school.

"You don't have to come in through the air vent," Shiki tells him. "You live here. You can use the door."

"I'm testing the security of your building. You know what it is? _Lacking."_

Shiki looks him over, from his dust encrusted hair to his streaked shoes. "Most people can't fit in the air vents. I really don't think it's a concern."

"But some can, and those are the ones you need to look out for."

"Of course. I live in perpetual fear a five-year-old might break in--"

"You don't take your own security seriously," Izaya says, and there is _no_ whine in his voice, thank you very much.

"I do, I just--"

"You just what?"

Shiki turns a suspicious eye on Izaya. "You haven't been scaring my drivers off, have you?"

Izaya makes for a casual saunter to the bathroom. "Oh? Been having problems with that, have you? I know a guy--”

"Izaya."

"--very trustworthy--"

"Izaya."

"--very good driver."

"Izaya. Stop messing with my drivers. I can take care of myself."

Izaya stops three feet from the door of the master bedroom, which contains the shower where the shampoo and soap live. Shiki doesn't like to be reminded that Izaya does it better. He's funny like that. Seems to think _he's_ the one taking care of _Izaya._

“Of course you can,” Izaya agrees, reaching for the handle, slipping into the bathroom before Shiki can get a word in edgewise.

He should have expected that Shiki would play dirty.

He comes out the bathroom in a billow of steam to see Shiki perched on the edge of the bed.

Tattoos on full display.

He's been able to see colors for years now, but he still hasn't seen a single thing more beautiful than Shiki's tattoos.

They curl over his body in rich colors and elegant designs and _no one_ gets to see them like him.

Shiki looks casually over his shoulder. "Finally done?"

"Yes," Izaya says, slowly approaching. Maybe, if he's cautious enough, Shiki will let him _touch._

"I was at your high school graduation earlier today."

Izaya pauses. "I didn't see you."

Shiki looks amused. "I know. That was the _point._ "

"Mean."

"Perhaps." Shiki stretches his arm out, holding something in his hand. Izaya approaches cautiously, plucking the button from his hands. "I hear it's tradition."

Izaya stares. It's plain, not fancy, but very clearly from one of Shiki's suit jackets. Would Shiki find it creepy if he had it sewn on to him?

Probably.

He’ll make it into a necklace instead.

“Thank you,” Izaya gripping it hard enough that it’ll likely leave welts. He’s already closer to Shiki naked than he’s ever been. Shiki seems to have a sixth sense for when Izaya tries to sneak up on him. He cautiously comes closer, and Shiki lets him, curling his hands around Izaya’s hips.

Izaya slowly reaches a hand forward, ever so slowly, and touches the dragon curling around Shiki’s shoulder.

“I guess you’re finally old enough,” Shiki purres, pulling Izaya back down on the bed, looming over him. “Finally an adult."

Oh, yes _finally._ God, he's been waiting _for years._ Shiki leans down, breath ghosting over the shell of Izaya's ear. He's never felt so sensitive, so _eager_ to--

"It’s a shame you don’t view _me_ that way.”

Shiki rolls over, curling into a blanket burrito. “Night, ‘Zaya.”

_Son of a--_

Maybe he should rethink his strategy.

  



End file.
